


seduced you and left you bruised and ruined (you poor sad thing, you want a better story)

by voxofthevoid



Series: couldn't get the boy to kill me [5]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Barebacking, Biting, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Dysfunctional Relationships, Face Slapping, Fisting, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Light CBT, M/M, Marathon Sex, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rape Fantasy, Referenced Pet Play, Resistance Play, Restraints, Rimming, Rough Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: “You’re a shitty actor, Barnes.”Bucky laughs, settles more firmly on Steve, leaning down until his unbound hair makes a curtain over their faces. Steve looks beautiful, face soft-edged and framed by the tips of Bucky’s hair. His smile makes him look younger than the thirty-something he physically is, like a man who seems more suited to a quiet life, not the battlefield. It’s a stupid thought; Bucky knows Steve’s got war in his blood, but it’s nice in an oddly aching kind of way to trace the shape of his lips and think of a life where Steve’s eyes don’t have shadows in them.Maybe he is more drunk than he thought.“Happy birthday,” Steve says after a while, quieter and more heartfelt than the perfunctory words they exchanged hours before, when the Avengers ambushed Bucky with confetti and a failed attempt at birthday spankings.-It's always one step forward, two steps backward.





	seduced you and left you bruised and ruined (you poor sad thing, you want a better story)

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed” by Richard Siken. 
> 
> This is the last part that’s set before _you could drown in those eyes_, the first part I posted in this series. And it bridges the gap between the sexual development so far and the rough play we see in _you could drown in those eyes_ and _take him home and rough him up_. There’s a lot happening in this, and I’ve tagged everything I can think of. There is a scene where Bucky **consumes alcohol** prior to sex, but he deliberately stops before he gets drunk for purposes of clear consent.
> 
> Let me know if you’d like anything else tagged.
> 
> Banner by [kocuria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria) <3

* * *

* * *

It seems to go on forever, his cock pulsing, ass throbbing, his entire body writhing around and under Steve, held in place and spread wide open.

When he finally comes down, Steve’s panting into his neck and still hard where he’s buried balls-deep in Bucky. He doesn’t understand supersoldier dick, the way it softens sometimes once Steve has come but doesn’t at other times, staying rock hard in Bucky’s ass, his mouth, between his slicked-up thighs. Neither seems to have an effect on how Steve can keep going on and on, hardening back up with barely a touch, driving into Bucky without any hint of oversensitivity.

They haven’t tried to see – not that there’s a lot of planning in any of this – how many times Steve can fuck him before he can’t get it up anymore. Bucky’s sure he’ll die before that point, and isn’t that a way to go? Fucked to death by Captain America.

He wouldn’t mind, fuck, he’d welcome it, and it can’t be all that different from the electric jolt that races up his spine when Steve gives an experimental jerk of his hips, quietly preparing to fuck Bucky until he cries. 

He wants it bad, he does, but the first brush against his oversensitive prostate tears out a whimper and a soul-deep shudder, gets him bracing for the pain as he imagines how Steve will make a wreck of him. He wants to scream with it, wants to struggle, really struggle, throw his whole body into it like he can’t stand to have Steve in him for another moment.

He wants to Steve to pin him down, flip him over, and just fuck into him, uncaring whether Bucky likes it, making him cry and curse and _take it_.

He wants to beg for mercy, beg Steve to _stop, it hurts please, let me go_, and he wants Steve to hear every word and listen to none of it, wants him to just take and take and take until Bucky’s broken at his feet.

Bucky doesn’t mean to say any of it out loud, but the fantasy slips out before his brain can catch up to his dick.

“God, stop,” he sobs, right as Steve bottoms out again.

There’s a moment of utter stillness.

Bucky registers what he just said and has the presence of mind to open his eyes just in time to watch Steve’s eyes widen in pure, unadulterated horror.

The thing that gets to him is – Steve’s gentle when he pulls out. He’s real slow about it, taking care not to hurt Bucky. It’s not something he ever does anymore because that’s not how they fuck, it’s not who they _are_, and that makes it all the more devastating to see him scramble away from Bucky the moment their bodies are separate. He doesn’t stop until he’s on the edge of the mattress, as far from Bucky as he can get without leaving the bed. His expression is still one of horror, but as Bucky watches, something else starts to creep in.

Guilt.

“Fuck,” Bucky spits, and bites his lip hard when Steve flinches. His eyes are frantically roving over Bucky, as if – as if to check if he’s hurt, where he’s hurt. Shit, shit, shit. “Steve, wait, don’t–”

Bad choice of words, Bucky realizes when Steve’s expression crumbles.

“I’m so–”

“I didn’t mean it!”

Bucky stops with a hard breath, unbearably glad that he cut the apology off. This went south really fast, but Bucky’s got to salvage it. He can’t have Steve think he’s a – that he did a single damn thing Bucky didn’t want.

Bucky wanted, wants, so bad he still can’t breathe.

A quick glance shows Steve’s soft between his legs, and look at that, a moment of unthinking idiocy managed what three consecutive orgasms couldn’t, one night in December.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks quietly, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed. Bucky doesn’t miss how he stays so carefully away from him and curates his body language to be as unthreatening as possible, which is no easy task when the man in question is six-feet tall and built like a fucking tank.

It makes Bucky feel like shit, spitting mad at himself. He keeps the worst of it out of his voice when he speaks, but some frustration leaks through, like he’s too used to throwing the worst of himself at Steve to stop now. He sits up, stalling for time, and arranges himself as modestly as he can when he’s wearing nothing but bruises from Steve’s hands and teeth.

“I didn’t want you to stop, Steve. I know, alright? I know you’d stop if I didn’t want this, if I told you to. Hell, you just did, and I didn’t – you didn’t hurt me. Didn’t mean to make you think that.”

Steve’s silent, and that great deep furrow between his brows is still there but at least it’s turned considering. Bucky expects questions. Dreads them too, a feeling quickly vindicated by Steve’s next words.

“Tell me, then, what you wanted me to do, after you said that.”

Steve’s eerily calm now, the earlier horror gone as if it never existed. There’s an edge to his voice, one that makes Bucky go hot and cold at the same time, for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck this.

He doesn’t want to fucking explain a rape fantasy to Captain goddamn America, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want to suffer through the censure that’s sure to follow. He’s tempted to just get up and walk, fuck this whole twisted sex thing they’ve got growing, their little enfant terrible. But just because Bucky’s being unreasonable doesn’t mean he can’t _tell_ when he’s being unreasonable; Steve doesn’t deserve to be left hanging like that, not about this, and honestly, he’s the best lay Bucky’s ever had. That’s what got him into this current mess, but damn if he’s willing to let go.

He looks Steve dead in the eye and says, “Keep going.”

Steve blinks, slow and maddening.

“You wanted me to keep going. After you begged me to stop.”

Bucky swallows in spite of himself. This conversation has quit skirting dangerous waters and is currently drowning in it, but Bucky’s dick still perks up at those words in Steve’s mouth, uttered in that low, soft tone.

“Yes,” he says, barely a whisper.

“Get up, Barnes.”

That sliver of arousal dies a quick, fiery death as Bucky obeys, mouth twisting up resignedly. He fucked up bad, and he knows it, but he’s still not happy about being summarily thrown out of Steve’s place. At least there’s no overt judgment or well-meant diatribe about how screwed he is in the head. It’s not that fucking complicated. And well, this way, there’s nothing to stop him from pretending that Steve’s ditching him because he’s offended that Bucky thought he might do that, not because he’s finally had enough of Bucky’s taste in bed.

That would be hypocritical as fuck anyway. Sure, Bucky likes it hella rough, but Steve likes to watch him bleed just as bad.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Steve asks when Bucky makes a beeline for the living room where his clothes are strewn about. He’s pretty sure his shirt’s torn, but fuck it, he’s walked around in worse.

“Leaving,” he spits out. “Like you want me to.”

“The hell you are,” Steve snaps, and finally, there’s a thread of anger in his voice. It’s reassuring, familiar, and Bucky instinctively prepares for all the ways he can use it. “Sit the fuck down, Barnes. We’re going to talk.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Cap. Hell no. You want to rag me about my goddamn depravity, you do it after you take a good, long look in the mirror.” He whips around. Steve’s surprised expression catches him off-guard, but by then, it’s too late, his mouth is already running. “Just because you can wash your hands off me once you’ve decided I want the wrong things…doesn’t…mean…oh, fuck. That’s not what you were going to say, huh?”

“No,” Steve says, dry as the Sahara. If he’s hurt at Bucky’s apparent esteem of him, he doesn’t show it. But– “It wasn’t. I would know a thing or two about that. I’m very familiar with my reflection these days, Barnes.”

“Fuck.” Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, unable to meet Steve’s. “I’m sorry, Cap, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean–”

“Yeah, you did,” Steve cuts in, merciless. “You’re nothing if not honest, Bucky Barnes. Now sit.”

Bucky swallows.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to make coffee, and we’re going to have a nice fucking chat.”

“I don’t – but _why_?”

And suddenly, Steve’s there, all up in his space, and Bucky sways helplessly into the hand tipping his chin up.

“Because if this is something you want from me, we’re going to have to see how we go about it. I’ve been jumping blind into this shit so far, and that’s fine, I’m used to it, but this – this is where I draw the line. We need rules. Boundaries.”

“You could just say no,” Bucky mumbles weakly. His heart’s in his throat, racing a mile a minute.

Steve’s eyes soften somehow.

“No, Barnes. I’m not saying no.”

-

Relief wars with something infinitely more complicated as Bucky sits there listening to Steve move about in the kitchen. He doesn’t understand why they need coffee. He doesn’t understand why they need to talk when they can just pretend the last half an hour never happened.

He doesn’t understand why Steve can’t just peel Bucky’s head open, see what he wants, and _give it_ to him, no words needed.

The last one’s as stupid as it’s unfair, but Bucky’s never worked well under a particular kind of pressure. He’ll take on a STRIKE team or three over processing his fucking emotions, even just the unrepentantly filthy ones.

Steve’s back too soon and not soon enough, two steaming mugs of coffee in his hand.

Bucky reaches gratefully for his, just to have something to do with his hands, but the first sip makes him regret every life decision he’s ever made that got him to this point. He’s proud of himself for not spitting it out on Steve.

“Sweet mother of _Christ_, Cap, what is this, rocket fuel?”

Steve blinks placidly and takes a generous gulp from his mug of caffeine potion. Bucky’s insides shrivel a little just watching him. He sets his mug down, scowling at the enticing scent that belies the bitter-sludge reality of it.

“Talk,” he says simply, and Bucky looks away before he can help it.

“I – what do you want me to say, Cap? You know the shit I like. And it’s not like I asked you to slap me around the first time I jumped on your dick. How surprised are you, really?”

“You always surprise me, Barnes.” Steve says that very quietly, with a thread of painful sincerity. Bucky’s not sure he was meant to hear that, but he did and snaps his eyes to Steve who holds his gaze with an expression not dissimilar to the one he wears to battle. Then he smiles, small and flashing. “You can take that as a compliment.”

Bucky’s not sure if he believes that, but his face is burning. He tips his head back, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have – but he knows and Steve knows that if he really wanted to avoid it, he’d have hightailed it out of here when Steve was making his caffeinated poison.

So maybe that means this is a conversation he wants to have. Who knows. He misses the days when his feelings for Steve were simple and centered on his dick.

“What do you want me to say, Steve?”

He doesn’t call Steve by name outside of sex, but it feels right now. _Cap_ wouldn’t be right. And Bucky uses _sir_ more or less to rile him up or sweettalk him, depending on the situation. And he likes calling Steve’s name, often gets a secret little thrill of it, and that’s exactly why he never uses it.

“Let’s start with what you want. And how I can give it to you.”

Bucky swallows at the words, pushing aside the sudden, shrill screaming in his skull. The thing is that Steve is the closest thing he’s had to a proper Dom since he got into wetwork and lost whatever faith he had left in humanity. His trust issues have trust issues these days, and he’s no Nick Fury or Natasha Romanoff, but he’s not your friendly, well-adjusted neighborhood assassin either. And he’s well aware that calling the twisted little thing he and Steve are nursing a proper _anything_ is testament to his inability to people.

But it says something that he’s still here, that he comes back to Steve again and again even though he’s lost count of the times he’s told himself that this is the last time.

“You know how hard it is to find it is to find someone who can give me what I want? What I _need_?” He chances a quick look at Steve, finds him listening intently, all of that considerable attention focused on Bucky. He shies away, turns back to the pleasant grey of the ceiling. “Yeah, no, you wouldn’t. Man like you, people would be lining up to get a little fucked up.”

Steve snorts, and it’s a sound that shouldn’t be even remotely endearing, but here Bucky is, chest warming alarmingly.

“You’d be surprised at how many people look at Captain America and see an innocent man they’d love to defile. I’m assuming that doesn’t happen much to you though.”

“Huh. And nope!” He pops the ‘p’ like an asshole, grinning a little at the idea of anyone seeing Steve that way. Bucky can tell them a thing or two. “Makes sense. The Winter Soldier has a very different reputation than Captain America. I’m built like an ox with a permanent resting bitch face. People assume things. The files Nat leaked didn’t help any. I go to a club, and I get people who want me to boss them around, and it’s worse if they recognize me. I’m not saying there aren’t people who don’t just assume. There are. And then there’s those who see a big, strong man and want to break him over their knee. But very few people can hold me down without it feeling like a goddamn lie, and most restraints break like glass if I yank too hard with my left arm. It’s not like people just casually keep adamantium cuffs in their bedroom.”

He stops there, mouth clicking shut. His breathing’s a little too fast to be normal, his hands cold and heart racing, and he’s a little amazed at the stream of words that just escaped him. They’re all things he’s thought of before, sometimes at length, but he hasn’t dwelled on them in a long time; he didn’t have to because he’s had Steve. But the words are there, clamoring at his tongue like they’ve waited a lifetime to be poured into willing ears.

Bucky doesn’t look at Steve this time even though he’s itching to.

“That’s fine,” he picks up, a little less frantic than before. “I’m fine with a good dicking, and a man who can put me under with just his words.”

“But that’s not enough. It’s not all you need.”

Bucky startles a little when Steve speaks, jolted out of his staring contest with the ceiling. Steve’s eyes catch him almost by accident but once he’s caught, he’s lost in blue.

It’s not that simple. It’s not just the sex. But here and now, that’s what matters.

There’s not the barest hint of judgment on Steve’s face, and Bucky wasn’t actively expecting it, but it’s the lack of it that makes him realize he wasn’t fully free of the fear either. But if anything, Steve looks more invested in the conversation than Bucky is, all focused and intense in that way Steve still doesn’t know is what gets people so flustered in his presence. Even Bucky has trouble holding his gaze, would look away if not for how he physically can’t.

Steve has always reeled him in like a moth to a flame, inexorable and deadly.

“No,” Bucky breathes, swallowing thickly. “It’s not.”

“You like to put up a fight,” Steve tells him calmly, with a faint smile that’s _fond_ at the edges, and Bucky’s heart does something complicated that puts it smack in the middle of his throat, pounding like mad and choking him up.

He nods jerkily and tears his eyes away from Steve’s face with difficulty.

It takes a while for him to gather himself enough to speak calmly, and Steve waits silently for the entirety of it, his patience offset by the weight of his eyes on Bucky.

“You’re the first person in a long time who could be – who could give me what I need. And I’m always pushing you, I know, I always want more. And you give it to me, every damn time. I didn’t mean to, today, I was just gonna…imagine it. But it slipped out. That’s all.”

“Bucky.”

Steve’s infuriatingly calm, tone utterly unreadable. Bucky wants to look at him, see the lines on Steve’s brow and the set of his mouth. He’s not wary of judgment anymore, and isn’t even resigned to rejection, but he hates doing this, all the talking, even though he knows it’s for the best.

It’s strange to realize that he’s not used to talking to Steve, just talking, and there’s something about this – sitting in a cozy living room, sipping tea, talking kink – that feels like crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, sharper this time, with a hint of the authority that Steve uses to bring Bucky to heel. “Look at me.”

His breath freezes in his lungs and heat flares in his gut in spite of the situation.

“I won’t ask again.”

Bucky looks at him, helpless, and the stern lines of Steve’s face soften. He leans forward and reaches as if to take Bucky’s hand.

Bucky recoils violently, curling in on himself like a turtle scampering back into its shell. He can’t let Steve touch him, not now, and he craves it deep inside, knows it well, but he might break into pieces at kindness, leave all the soft, vulnerable parts of him bare for Steve to pick up and put back together, and Bucky would rather die.

Steve still with his hand in the air and withdraws slowly, face devoid of any expression but not unkind.

“Alright,” he says quietly, soothingly, like Bucky’s a startled animal. It’s easy enough to picture. “Tell me how I’ll know.”

That catches him off-guard, makes him forget what an utter _mess_ this is for just a second.

“What?”

“How will I know,” Steve says, “when you really mean no? We need a signal.”

Bucky blinks, and it takes longer than it should for him to process that, but when he does, his breath leaves him in a bark of laughter.

“Holy shit. You’re asking me for a safeword. You know what a safeword is.”

Steve’s expression is part exasperation and part pure I-want-to-strangle-you-with-my-dick-still-in-you. Bucky’s pretty familiar with that look.

“I’ve been reading. Answer my question.”

Bucky doesn’t, not immediately. He just watches Steve, noting the rigid set of his body and the slight widening of his pupils. He’s not as unaffected as he’s trying to act, likely for Bucky’s sake as much as his own, but his nerves seem to rise from a similar place as Bucky’s. And damn if that isn’t simultaneously reassuring and terrifying.

“You like a fight too,” Bucky breathes.

Awe bubbles up inside him, alongside something raw and animal. Steve sees it in his eyes, has to, and his eyes darken in response.

“I do.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, staring at each other in straining silence. It feels like a dream, one from which Bucky wouldn’t mind never waking.

“You know where I’m from, Steve?”

“It was in your file,” Steve says, and his voice is bland, the look in his eyes anything but.

“’Kay then, since we’re pair of Brooklyn boys being stupid as shit, it’s as good as anything. Agree?”

Steve looks very much like he wants to laugh and also a little like he wants to fuck Bucky on all fours right there on the floor.

“Alright,” he murmurs, lips quirking at one side. “Brooklyn it is.”

Bucky nods and slumps back on the couch. He’s still tense, hands still cold and chest still heavy, but for a second, he can breathe a little easy.

They won’t fuck today, that’s for sure. He’ll get up soon, won’t look Steve in the eyes for fear of what he’ll see. He’ll flee, and he won’t come back until his heart stops seizing at the very thought.

But first, he’ll take a moment, here on the couch with Steve and his terrible coffee and the fading ghost of an honest, stilted conversation.

-

He finds his way back, eventually, inevitably.

He tells himself that he’s just going to have a long drive that’ll calm his nerves, and he cheerfully sticks to the lie right until he’s parked in front of Steve’s apartment building. After reporting to Maria, he checked and found that Steve wasn’t living in the Tower for the time being. There’s no particular pattern to the way he alternates between his place and Avengers Tower, but it’s at the latter that Bucky usually ambushes him. Easy access, an elevator ride away. The apartment is different; it’s Steve’s space away from the chaos of their shared world, and Bucky’s known his address since he bought the place but never visited. Some things are sacred.

And yet.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, opens the door shirtless in low-slung pants, and Bucky barely remembers what he does, except that it gets him pinned to the wall within ten seconds, throat aching between Steve’s teeth.

They make it to the bed, somehow, and it’s probably Steve, more devious than anyone gives him credit for, hauling Bucky around like he’s an insolent puppy.

It’s good, hands in his hair and teeth on his shoulder, shirt torn and fly undone, losing himself slow and sweet to Steve, the images in his head not forgotten but fading.

Maria summoned him, gave him a mission, solo, no need for a team, just an assassin, and it’s funny how S.H.I.E.L.D is dead except for how it’s not. Steve wouldn’t be happy, but not all of them can shake off Fury’s hold on them. Bucky’s an Avenger, but he’s not a hero, isn’t built that way.

Steve bites bruises down his torso, large hands keeping Bucky down on the bed, and it’s easy to let bruise-pink skin and summer blue replace the hot red of blood and blank grey eyes of a woman who’s probably better off dead but haunts Bucky anyway. It’ll pass, always will, but he’s still here, and it’s stupid, he’s impatient, and god, he wants to be taken apart and put back together, but he’s only ever trusted Steve with the former.

Steve bites at Bucky hips, licks a stripe up his cock and down his balls, and flips him over before he can finish moaning.

A wet tongue laps at his hole, and Bucky’s mewling like he’s in heat, ass grinding against Steve’s face. Another bite, sharp and fever-hot; his cheek burns with the imprint of Steve’s teeth, and Bucky wants to be eaten alive.

Slick fingers join, two and long and thick, too much with Steve’s tongue slithering between the digits. The sheets tear under Bucky’s grip, and Steve’s fingers press mercilessly against his prostate as his teeth graze the rim.

Bucky comes with a muffled shout, mind blank and body trembling as climax wrings him dry.

He’s tight when Steve slips in, can feel the way his hole spasms around the girth, struggling to adjust. Steve’s not kind, takes what he wants, and Bucky’s in love with the violence of his hands and teeth and cock.

It’s easy to lie as limp as a doll and be fucked, body rocking with each thrust, gasping wordless and high at the burn of it. He’s sensitive, prostate burning with each thrust, dick aching but soft. He’s stuffed full, split in two, and fuck, yes, this is what he was made for, not the killing.

“Hush,” Steve says, oddly gentle, and Bucky quiets the sobs he wasn’t aware of making.

His face is wet.

“There we go,” Steve croons at him, and he’s an asshole, he’s perfect. “You’re sweet tonight, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Bucky manages weakly, and Steve’s next thrust almost breaks him in half. His arms give away, and Steve follows him down, hooking his arms under Bucky’s and holding tight, keeping Bucky trapped under the hot bulk of him. It’s suffocating, scorching, and his cock is merciless inside Bucky, grinding harsh and deep.

Steve’s teeth sink into his shoulder.

Bucky jolts, shouts, and that earns him a rougher bite at the nape. Steve suckles wetly at the ache, tongue flicking out to soothe and to tease. And then it’s gone, and so is Steve, and Bucky’s whining at the loss even when he’s pulled upright and manhandled into Steve’s lap.

He peers wide-eyed at Steve, all of him bare and golden, and it’s like looking at the sun. Icarus flew, fell, and he died cold when all he wanted was to burn.

Steve lifts him by the ass, lowers him on his cock, and Bucky’s gasping with each inch that’s buried in him. It’s more intense like this, his ass flush to Steve’s thighs and speared on his cock, nowhere to go but deeper, up his chest and throat, stealing his air and choking him up.

Steve’s got fingers pressing bruises into the flesh of Bucky’s ass, tight and cruel as they lift him up and slam him back down, all that coiled strength made frantic and merciless. Bucky just clings, giving Steve finger-marks of his own except they’ll fade before they’re even done while Bucky will spend days wearing his like a brand. He doesn’t mind, loves them when he lets himself think about them. He’ll carry a piece of Steve within him when this finally ends and they go their separate ways, and he’ll keep it forever, but god, he hopes he won’t carve that piece out of Steve’s noble, shrouded heart.

A warm hand cups his face, fingers spanning his cheeks before curling to hook into his jaw, giving Bucky a little shake. He opens his eyes, blinks tears out of his vision, and passively parts his lips for the finger Steve slides into his mouth. He sucks, groaning around it when Steve’s hips jerk up roughly, and another finger joins in, moving filthily over Bucky’s tongue.

Steve’s eyes are blazing, piercing into Bucky, and he wants to shy away from it but can’t, won’t, and who knows, maybe Bucky wants to burn too.

Steve pulls his fingers out, a long string of saliva connecting them to Bucky’s open mouth. Steve looks down, gaze dark and mesmerized, and he wants to kiss Bucky, he always wants to kiss Bucky, but no, no, it’s not that he doesn’t want it, but no.

Steve bites his jaw instead, sucks a mark that he can’t hide, and Bucky hisses, slams his hips down to take Steve’s cock as deep as he can.

The first touch around his rim is a shock, electric, fingers warm and wet against the painful stretch. Steve circles the hole, softly at first, feeling how Bucky’s held open by his cock. He likes it, cheeks flushing and eyes all dark, flicking up to Bucky’s almost shyly.

But there’s nothing shy about the blunt pressure that follows, searing against his hole that’s already spread to its limits.

Bucky shakes his head, digging his fingers into Steve’s shoulder. He tries to focus, tongue clumsy around the words it wants to form, mind half-gone on the cock grinding lazily into him.

Steve’s fingers press more insistently, and Bucky’s rim twitches, soft and vulnerable.

“No,” Bucky manages to gasp, barely recognizes the gravelly voice of a man so wrecked. “Won’t – don’t – Steve, it won’t–”

Steve flicks one finger against Bucky’s rim, a hard nail snapping down on skin. He screams, squirming around Steve’s cock, but he’s not going anywhere, Steve’s not done with him yet.

“Won’t what, Bucky?” Steve asks, the bastard, and he’s probing again, trying to tug at the flesh that’s wrapped tight around his cock.

“Won’t fit,” Bucky hisses, desperate, and it turns into a high-pitched shout when Steve just pushes right in. “_Stop_, god, Steve, you can’t–”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” Steve murmurs, mouthing along Bucky’s jaw and licking the bruises blooming there. “And you’ll take every bit of it.”

Bucky thinks, given the situation, that he can be forgiven for being stunned into silence while Steve’s forefinger joins his cock in tearing Bucky up from the inside.

Brooklyn. The word’s a passing thought, reassuring, even as nothing but another cry spills from his lips.

Steve bucks his hips, bouncing Bucky on his cock, finger still buried deep and tugging at his hole like it wants him _gaping_. Bucky shakes his head, helpless, and when another finger tries to join in, his denial is more a scream than a word.

“No, no,” he mumbles, half-coherent when Steve continues to try and stretch him wider. “_Wait_, please, Steve, it won’t – I can’t take it, I _can’t_.”

Steve proves him wrong ruthlessly, and Bucky’s gasping wetly, mouth open and keening, ass burning around two fingers and that monster of a cock.

“Yeah, you can,” Steve tells him, voice low and satisfied. He’s grinding into Bucky again, cock thrusting gently, fingers hooked deep. “Look at that, sweetheart, you open so fucking easy. Would take my whole damn fist if I wanted you to, ain’t that right?”

Bucky shakes his head, but it’s there in his head already, images of Steve’s huge hand fucking him open, tearing him up, leaving him bleeding and sobbing, desperate for him to stop and knowing he won’t, and–

His body convulses, held tight and stretched wide.

“Please don’t,” he says, pleading and hoping. “Steve, I – _out_, pull out.”

Steve blinks at him, cock and fingers still inside Bucky for a second, and then his blue eyes brighten with an unholy light, and Bucky almost comes again, just from that.

“No,” Steve tells him, and he’s smiling, the expression dark and pleased and hitting Bucky like a freight-train. “No, Bucky, I don’t think I will.”

Oh. God.

Okay, yes, okay.

Steve starts to fuck him again, properly this time, hard and fast, pulling air and choked words out of Bucky, the room filling with ragged cries and gutted pleas, and Bucky loses track of it, lost to the slick heat of their bodies and the throbbing ache inside of him. He comes, and it’s more intense, deep, strong pulses that never seem to end, each stroke of Steve’s cock and each twitch of his fingers sending another wave of sensation tearing through him.

When it’s over, Bucky’s slumped on Steve and being moved like a toy, warm and pliant for Steve to fuck into.

He pants against Steve’s neck, thinks could die like this, fucked out, head quiet and empty.

Steve’s orgasm is a spill of fire inside him, burning through bone and tissue to fill up the hollow parts of his soul. He stays for a moment, still hard, but pulls out before Bucky’s ready for it. He’s dripping wet, sensitive when Steve brushes his rim with hungry fingers. It aches, the sudden emptiness pulsing forlornly.

And then he’s not empty, three fingers sliding in smooth and slick into the mess Steve’s made of him. He’s always thought that Steve likes this a lot, a hell of a lot, coming inside Bucky and leaving him sloppy. It’s possessive, as obvious a claim as he can make, and Bucky’s thought about stopping him, but the thought of Steve using condoms or pulling out early is repulsive. It’s not just that Bucky likes the mess, though he does, but he likes that it’s Steve’s mess, and that should make him double down, be wise and safe, but _should_ is a complicated concept.

Steve crooks his fingers, makes Bucky jolt, and meets his eyes with narrowed blue, greedy for attention like he doesn’t know that Bucky’s always been helpless not to give it to him.

Maybe he doesn’t.

He lets his eyes flutter closed when Steve rubs teasingly at his over-sensitized prostate, biting his lips but not muffling a whine. He can feel Steve hard against his belly, knows he’ll slide back in once he’s had his fill of feeling what he’s done to Bucky, and maybe Bucky will squirm away, maybe he won’t, and it won’t matter because it’ll be good, will drive him out of his mind, and it won’t be fun, what comes afterward, never is, and Bucky will make it home in one piece, and he won’t be whole, but then he never was.

It’s pain that pulls him back to himself, not the too-sweet burn of oversensitivity but the merciless sting of being stretched too fast. Steve’s big everywhere, and Bucky never feels it as acutely as when he’s spread open on four of those impossibly long fingers. It fits in him just fine, his hole wet with come and the fingers slick with lube, but he’s raw and throbbing from Steve’s cock and feels like he’s being split open in a wholly different way.

Bucky pries his face away from it was plastered to Steve’s neck and regrets it the next moment when it makes him shift on Steve’s fingers, hole tightening almost painfully.

“Fuck,” he hisses, teeth gritted as he struggles to focus. He’s clinging to Steve still, can’t fathom letting go, but the bastard’s keeping Bucky suspended between a hand at his nape and nearly all of his other hand in his asshole.

Steve spreads his fingers, and Bucky _screams_.

It’s a wretched sound, torn right out of his soul, and the air reverberates with it. Steve’s unmoved, firm as a rock under Bucky, but his eyes are dark and hungry, drinking in the mess he’s made.

“What are you doing?” Bucky rasps, shivering at the hoarse wreck his voice has become. There are tears filling his eyes, threatening to spill over, and his face already feels tacky from sobbing on Steve’s cock. He can feel them hitch up his clogged throat, one harsh touch away from ruination.

“I told you, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs all soft and gentle, like Bucky doesn’t know there will be hell to pay when Steve calls him _sweetheart_. “You’d take my whole damn fist if I wanted you to. Hm?”

Oh, _oh_, fuck.

That broad thumb teases along his rim, rubbing at the wetness there. It’s big and calloused, warm even against Bucky’s burning skin. He tries to imagine it inside, can’t help it, and almost breaks then and there.

“Please don’t,” is all he can say, and the way Steve’s gaze sharpens at the words is far from reassuring. “_No_. Steve, sir, you’ll–”

He’s cut off by Steve pushing further, fingers doing _something_ inside Bucky while his thumb presses harder at the edge. Bucky gasps, wild and half a sob, and Steve does it again, the tip of his thumb threatening to slide in.

“I’ll what?” he asks, tone casual, voice rough. He’s not unaffected, never is, but he’s also never as controlled as he is when Bucky’s unraveling at the seams. “C’mon, Bucky. Tell me what I’ll do.”

“Fuck you.” It’s a last bit of desperate defiance and he pays for it a second later, arching up with a shriek when Steve’s fingers stab mercilessly into his prostate. “No, fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“You did,” Steve says, laughing, the _bastard_, and fuck, his _thumb_–

The pressure crests and–

–vanishes.

It stings when Steve pulls his fingers around, Bucky’s rim clenching around them helplessly, but it’s the aftermath that’s worst, the sudden searing emptiness. Bucky has a stunned moment of utter stillness on Steve’s lap and then he’s being shoved away; he spills onto the bed, is caught and pushed face-down, ass-up, Steve fucking into him in one savage thrust.

He doesn’t make a sound, haven’t got the breath for it, just gasps soundlessly into the sheets as Steve fucks him through the mattress. He’s loose for it, opened up wide by the first round and Steve’s fucking fingers, and the thrusts are wet and easy except for how it rubs him raw and rattles his bones. Part of Bucky’s still reeling, expecting that huge hand to fist him open, and the rest of him is caught up in confused arousal, pain and pleasure mingling into something sharp-edged and throbbing. His cock’s half-hard again, sliding against the mattress as Steve tries his best to rail Bucky right through it.

His head’s spinning and it’s easy, so fucking easy, to just close his eyes and lose himself to the violent rocking of his body.

-

Steve’s rougher after that.

Bucky briefly entertains the notion that he’s reading too much into it, letting perception color facts, but no, it’s definitely Steve. He gets the feeling that Steve’s testing boundaries, exploring their newfound understanding, seeing how much he can push before Bucky stops him. Bucky’s not complaining, anything but. He loves it, the way Steve’s hands are hot and proprietary on him, taking what he wants and making Bucky like it. Maybe one day, the novelty of being hoisted against a door and pinned to the wall and bent over tables will wear off, but Bucky honestly can’t see it happening any time soon, not when he can squirm and swear and _fight_, fists metal and flesh flying with the utter confidence that they’ll be caught and held.

Steve’s fucking strong, and it’s not news, is a real big part of why Bucky went for him in the first place back in what now feels like a different lifetime, but it’s another thing entirely when all that golden power is turned against Bucky in the most intimate ways. He could have spent his whole life watching Steve punch monsters twice his size and grappling with Thor’s thunder thighs in a playful spar, and it still wouldn’t have helped, wouldn’t have left him anything but breathlessly awed by long fingers that wrap around his wrists and leave marks that last a week.

It's strange how Steve keeps giving Bucky more, makes him wonder, makes him wish–

He’s more or less stopped telling himself that he’ll stop doing this to Steve, knows he won’t, but he slips up sometimes, entertains that short-lived delusion that hurts in entirely different ways.

They’re a disaster the two of them, wasn’t ever gonna be anything else.

And maybe that’s not the best thought to have on his birthday when his questionably sane colleagues who sneaked their way into being his friends are all too happy to ply him – and themselves – with an endless supply of alcohol. Tony’s smashed, so’s Clint, and the rest range from drunk to real fucking happy. Natasha’s curled up in a corner of the couch and watching everyone with lazy eyes, as relaxed as she’ll ever be, and Bruce is beside her, a faint flush to his cheeks. Even Sam’s far gone judging by the way he led Thor around the room in the clumsiest tango Bucky has had the dubious pleasure of witnessing.

It's been a rough couple of months, between a few Hydra cells popping up along the East Coast and a few supervillains dropping in to say hi, and Bucky figures it makes sense that everyone’s happy for a socially acceptable excuse to get wrecked.

Steve and Pepper are the only ones sober by the end; Pepper because she’s got an important conference call at some unholy hour that she can’t be so much as tipsy for, and Steve because of the fucking serum. He’s smiling faintly, eyes on Sam who’s sprawled on the floor and bobbing his head to some unknown tune, but there’s a tightness to his eyes that’s been there for _weeks_. Bucky kinda wants to punch him, kinda wants to kiss him. He’s the reason Bucky’s only tipsy and not rip-roaring drunk as he’d like to be. Thing is that he’s not sure if Steve will fuck him if he’s drunk out of his mind because he’s a gentleman at the worst of times, and fuck, Bucky needs it, can’t risk it, not when Steve would make his head go sweet and quiet faster and for longer than drink ever could.

Steve catches his eyes as they’re all filing out of Tony’s floor, most of them leaning on each other. Pepper’s dragging Tony along. Sam, Natasha, and Clint are all in a clingy group, and Bruce and Thor are walking with linked arms and careful steps. Bucky blinks slowly, rises unsteadily to his feet. He staggers forward and hides a smile with a duck of his head when Steve rushes to support him.

He takes advantage shamelessly, wrapping his fingers around Steve’s bicep and squeezing, breath hitching a bit at the sheer bulk of it. His body’s no less impressive when Bucky leans into it, strong and hot through two layers of clothes.

If Steve notices that Bucky’s faking the intensity of his inebriation, he says nothing, just helps him to the elevator and doesn’t let him go as it starts to descend.

Steve steps out when the doors open to his floor but doesn’t let go of Bucky, tugging him along and making a gesture at the others that most of them aren’t aware enough to interpret. Natasha gives him a tired thumbs-up, the bottom half of her face hidden by the blond tuft of Clint’s hair. He’s plastered to her front in a way that should be indecent but comes across as just adorable. It’s a skill.

“C’mon,” Steve says, guiding Bucky bodily, and he follows, waiting only as long as it takes for the elevator to start descending before throwing himself at Steve.

They land on the floor with a loud thud, Steve grunting as he takes the brunt of the fall. Bucky recovers a beat slower than usual but straddles Steve before he can make a move to get away.

“Hello,” he says, grinning wide, a hint of triumph in his teeth.

Steve stares for a moment and then he–

He smiles, it’s so fond, and _oh_.

Bright blue eyes flicker to Bucky’s mouth, and he wants to kiss him. Steve always wants to kiss him. It’s there, each time, that flick of the eyes, all that yearning, and Bucky gets it, he does, he wants it too, so fucking bad, but they can’t, doesn’t Steve understand?

But maybe, this time–

The moment passes too fast, and Steve’s gaze is sharper when it catches Bucky’s, piercing in that familiar, gut-wrenching way.

“You’re a shitty actor, Barnes.”

Bucky laughs, settles more firmly on Steve, leaning down until his unbound hair makes a curtain over their faces. Steve looks beautiful, face soft-edged and framed by the tips of Bucky’s hair. His smile makes him look younger than the thirty-something he physically is, like a man who seems more suited to a quiet life, not the battlefield. It’s a stupid thought; Bucky knows Steve’s got war in his blood, but it’s nice in an oddly aching kind of way to trace the shape of his lips and think of a life where Steve’s eyes don’t have shadows in them.

Maybe he is more drunk than he thought.

He doesn’t kiss Steve.

“Happy birthday,” Steve says after a while, quieter and more heartfelt than the perfunctory words they exchanged hours before, when the Avengers ambushed Bucky with confetti and a failed attempt at birthday spankings.

Bucky smiles, pushes his face in the hollow of Steve’s neck and breathes in the earthly scent of him.

“Thank you.”

“I got you something,” Steve tells him, running his hand down Bucky’s spine and not-so-accidentally turning his bones into liquid.

“Didn’t have to. The arsenal you lot pitched in for is gonna keep me happy for a year at least.”

“Assassins,” Steve sighs, humor threading his painfully sober voice. “A few fancy knives, a rocket launcher or two, and you’re as happy as a clam.”

“What can I say, I’m easy.”

He’s grinning as he says it, doesn’t expect the sudden surge that flips them in place, but he’s laughing when he registers the cool floor at his back and Steve’s warm body pinning him down, blue eyes bright above him.

“Guess you are,” Steve says with a look that’s unreadable. “Up you get. Present’s in the bedroom.”

“Ooooh,” Bucky croons, suddenly alert, all perky with it. If he were a dog, he’d be an open-mouthed, butt-wriggling ball of happy, and there’s an image, hm? Maybe Steve could do something with that, put him on a leash. “That kinda present, huh?”

Steve’s smile is some shade of exasperated, but it persists when he rises to his feet and pulls Bucky up, effortless and easy because he’s so fucking strong, like someone took a peek at Bucky’s wildest fantasies and churned out a perfect specimen. Makes him wish his head was kinder, or at least he does when he’s got drink in his veins. Sober Bucky knows better, most of the time.

He's seen pictures of Steve Rogers, pre-serum version, and can’t deny the appeal in the hard blue of his eyes and the stubborn clench of his jaw. He looks like a spitfire, and from what he’s heard Steve tell the others, he sure was one. Bucky’s already charmed, but he likes this Steve best, the one he knows in the way of darkness and violence. ‘Course if Bucky really cared, he’d leave Steve the hell alone, kiss him goodbye and never look the fuck back, but he does care, honest, it’s just that he’s not a good person, probably never was.

Fingers tap his left cheek in what passes as a love-tap for Steve, which of course means Bucky’s going to feel the sting for a while. He blinks at Steve and finds that they’re in the bedroom, Steve’s other hand wrapped authoritatively around Bucky’s wrist.

“Earth to Barnes,” Steve quips, smirking, all-American asshole that he is. Bucky swats at him, but he’s smiling.

“Where’s this present of mine?”

Steve steps away, and Bucky tries not to show his keen sense of loss at the distance. The room feels colder.

“Strip,” Steve says, and the air’s suddenly hot again.

Bucky strips, not in the mood to put up a token resistance like he’s fond of doing just to get Steve all hard-eyed and rough. It’s always a novelty to have the chance to strip for Steve. His clothes are usually torn off him, which Bucky loves, but there’s an appeal to this too, Bucky baring himself piece by piece while Steve roots around for something in his bedside drawer. Bucky lets his clothes drop where he’s standing until he’s entirely naked, nipples erect and cock slowly hardening between his legs.

Steve looks over his shoulder and turns around when he catches sight of Bucky, giving him a once-over that clings hot to his skin. It’s no news that Steve finds him attractive with something at least close to the helpless intensity that short-circuits Bucky’s higher brain functions, but it’s a hell of a thing, each time, to see and feel the tangible evidence of this.

He's half-hard now, dick twitching invitingly when Steve’s gaze lingers there.

“Bed, now,” Steve orders, voice gone silkily deep. “On your back. Close your eyes.”

“Got a surprise for me, sir?”

Steve laughs, and Bucky can feel his eyes on him as he does as asked, arranging himself comfortably on the mattress and closing his eyes. He hears the sounds of Steve closing the drawer and the soft thuds of a few things falling on the bed. It’s tempting to sneak a peek, but then the mattress dips with Steve’s weight and his palm comes to rest on Bucky’s throat, a gentle reminder that keeps Bucky obedient.

“Good,” Steve murmurs, voice warm with pleasure.

Bucky wonders a lot about what Steve likes best – Bucky sweet and good for him, malleable to each command, or wild with teeth, forcing Steve to fight for every inch of bruised flesh. Both, probably. Bucky’s more comfortable with a fight, less vulnerable, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love this, Steve whispering praise while Bucky quivers under his touch. And it all ends in violence in the end, Bucky breathless and sobbing.

Steve takes his arms, flesh first and then the metal, and arranges them as he wants, stretched and well apart above Bucky’s head, the tips of his fingers almost brushing the headboard. Bucky makes a soft, questioning noise at that, remembering that the last time Steve made him hold onto the headboard, the poor wooden thing broke in the middle of the second round. Bucky was spared a few nasty splinters only because the offending arm was made of metal.

“Hush. Keep ‘em closed.”

Bucky makes a face but does as told, every sense but sight tuned in to every twitch Steve makes. He shifts on the bed a lot, something clinks, and then there’s a hard chill encircling his right wrist, snapping close with a resounding click.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and then there’s the same on his left hand, a heavy feeling of firm pressure.

“Steve?”

More clicks, and when Bucky jerks his arms, they don’t move more than an inch.

Steve just handcuffed him to the headboard.

His heart starts racing, dick at full mast and starting to get wet, as Bucky just lies there, eyes still closed and feels hyperaware of his body, laid bare and chained to the bed.

Steve’s never needed restraints to keep Bucky where he wants him, so if he’s resorting to them, then – then–

The high of anticipation crashes down abruptly. Bucky feels a little cold, gut unpleasantly heavy.

“It won’t work,” he tells Steve, trying and failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I’ve told you, Cap. Handcuffs don’t hold me long.”

He flexes his left arm to prove a point, tugging but not as hard as he could because he doesn’t want this to end yet, inevitable as it is. The cuff around the metal wrist doesn’t creak alarmingly so whatever Steve got is better than your run-of-the-mill sex toy, but Bucky’s shit at controlling his strength in the middle of being taken apart by Steve, like brain can register nothing past the fact that Steve can take whatever Bucky throws at him and feels free to take full advantage.

“No, you didn’t. Open your eyes.”

Bucky does and finds himself staring into so much of blue.

“You told me people don’t usually keep adamantium cuffs in their bedrooms.” He leans in, torso parallel to Bucky’s, unreasonably hot. “But I’m not _people_, am I, sweetheart?”

Bucky shakes his head numbly, blood rushing south, body thrumming in a Pavlovian reaction to Steve’s tone, that sugary _sweetheart_.

Steve pulls away abruptly, and Bucky arches after him only to be yanked back down by the cuffs. He pulls on them instinctively, but only gets a bruising pressure on his right hand. It’s equally firm but less painful on the left. They’re not padded cuffs meant to protect the skin. These will fuck him up if he’s not careful, and fuck it, Bucky’s never careful in bed and Steve fucking knows it.

A moan flutters in his throat, clawing for release.

“Feel free to test them out,” Steve says from the foot on the bed. He’s folding Bucky’s clothes, slow and methodical and absolutely fucking unnecessary. “In fact, I insist. I want to watch.”

Bucky does, uncaring that he’s playing right into Steve’s hands, putting on a show. He writhes and arches and yanks, and nothing. Nothing.

“Thought of keeping them in my apartment,” Steve tells him, infuriatingly casual, hands moving confidently over the folds of Bucky’s sweater even as his eyes remain unwavering on Bucky. “But the bed there’s too fragile to handle us that way, and the worst that can happen here is Tony abusing JARVIS to spy on what I need the cuffs for. I’m not worried. JARVIS likes me.”

“Fuck.”

It’s a hoarse whisper, Bucky sounding like he’s been deep-throating Steve’s dick for the last hour. He’s fucking excused. Steve went to Tony and asked for adamantium handcuffs, knowing full well that Tony might keep it a secret if asked right but would heckle the hell out of Steve in private anyway. And he did it for Bucky.

_Fuck_.

“Easy there,” Steve warns, and Bucky pries his eyes open and keeps them that way when he finds Steve finally taking off his own clothes. Sure, he’s folding them too with that same maddening care, but every passing moment reveals more of that gorgeous body, and Bucky drinks it in greedily, desperately. Steve doesn’t join Bucky once he’s naked, just stands and stares instead, presenting an incongruous picture with his hands folded across his chest and brows furrowed in utmost concentration. It’s a look more suited to Captain America’s red-white-blue brand of intimidation than the bedroom, and that’s probably why it gets Bucky panting like a bitch in heat.

“C’mon,” he mutters in the end, spreading his legs in shameless invitation. “The hell you waiting for.”

“Not waiting,” Steve says, amused, though he does finally climb in bed. “Admiring the view.”

Right, because Bucky’s scarred, battle-worn body’s something he hasn’t seen before. He’s attractive, he knows that, but he ain’t no work of art. Steve frowns like he can read the direction of Bucky’s thoughts. He doesn’t push, but his eyes take their sweet time wandering over Bucky’s bare body, dark with want and appreciative, and that’s as clear a message as can be sent.

Bucky turns away, trying in vain to hide the heat in his cheeks. Steve lets him, preoccupied with pushing Bucky’s legs further apart and settling in between them. He runs his hands up his thighs, not as rough as they could be.

“I’m a little torn,” Steve tells him, sounding all thoughtful. “Where do I start?”

Bucky just looks pointedly at his cock and then Steve’s, both hard and flushed in obvious interest.

“Good idea,” Steve says, infuriatingly perky, and promptly bends down to sink his teeth into Bucky’s inner thigh. He shouts, startled, and his involuntary jerk is suppressed ruthlessly by Steve’s strong grip on his legs.

Steve sucks a burning mark onto that patch of skin before latching onto another, mouth hot and tongue wet as he bites his way up Bucky’s thigh, first the right, then the left. He leaves stinging skin in his wake, pale flesh bruising red. Bucky watches him, mouth open and panting, mesmerized by the sight of Steve marking him up like he owns him, like it’s only right that Bucky can’t walk for days without feeling what Steve has done to him.

The bastard stops before his mouth so much as brushes Bucky’s cock, straightening up with a self-satisfied glint in his damnable blue eyes. Bucky spits out something unflattering about his mother and doesn’t even see the blow coming.

He tastes blood before the pain registers, split lip dripping red as he blinks the stars out of his eyes. His cheek throbs in time with his cock. There will be a hell of a bruise tomorrow, and he wants Steve to do it again, beat him black and blue, make him like it.

“Please,” Bucky mutters, dazed, and whines when Steve grabs his face, thumb digging painfully into where he hit, and makes Bucky look at him.

“Please what,” he asks flatly, not even fazed by Bucky’s reaction.

Bucky swallows, fighting not to hump the air like he’s some mad dog in rut.

“Again. Please.”

“Well, alright.”

Steve obliges, and it’s a fucking skill, how sounds like he’s doing Bucky a _favor_ by agreeing to slap him silly, never mind that it’s true. Bucky tongues his cheek where a bruise is blooming on the other side. Steve, despite what he said, just watches him, eyes dark and huge. Then he reaches out, and Bucky flinches, can’t help it when he sees it coming, but Steve just caresses his face with gentle fingers.

His cheek hurts more at the touch even though Steve’s barely putting any pressure. Must be in his head, the gentleness seeping through Bucky’s skin the way violence rarely did. He wants to protest but the words die in his throat at the look in Steve’s eyes. He doesn’t see tenderness there, not affection or, god forbid, love. Just fascination, deep and true; a man admiring his handiwork.

Bucky closes his eyes, heart thudding.

It’s vicious when it comes, an open-handed slap that imprints itself soul-deep into Bucky’s skin. His head spins, face hurts, and his cock’s fucking drooling even before the pain registers. Bucky whimpers when it does, keening between gritted teeth. Steve’s spanked him before, ass and thighs flaring red with hurt, but it’s rare that he turns all that glorious violence on Bucky’s face. He loves it, aches for it, misses it desperately when Steve’s playing nice or not playing at all.

“You’re nothing if not predictable, Barnes,” Steve says, and Bucky doesn’t know what to make of his tone, sharp and cruel and hiding something. He doesn’t have the energy for it and blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“’aid I’m always surprising.” He slurs, has to swallow and force his eyes open in a vain attempt to regain his equilibrium. God, his face _hurts_. “Changed your mind, Captain?”

“No,” Steve says calmly, reaching over to flatten his palm over one throbbing cheek. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, Barnes.”

Steve digs his nails in, and Bucky _yowls_.

When the white-hot pain recedes and he can see again, Steve’s still kneeling between his legs with perfect poise, hands resting lightly on his thighs, giving away nothing of their perfect brutality.

Bucky blinks and tears roll down his cheeks, searing his swelling skin.

Steve frowns at his face, and Bucky can read him well enough to know he’s assessing the damage he did. He wants to tell Steve it’s fine, he can take more so give it to him, but his throat is dry, tongue heavy in his mouth. He can only lie there frozen and bound as Steve’s gaze trails down his body, cataloguing every fucking inch.

Bucky almost sobs in relief when one of those big, meaty hands curl over his cock like benediction, Steve’s version of balancing violence with mercy.

At least that’s what Bucky thinks until the hand pulls back for a second and returns with a four-fingered slap.

He doesn’t scream, is the thing. Can’t. Don’t have the breath for it. Pain whites out his head, freezes his lungs, stills the rush of his blood.

He comes with his body in a taut arch, mouth open wordlessly, and eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. Someone’s panting like they’re dying, and he realizes it’s him, slumping down with a soft, pitiful sound. His cock hurts like fire, still rock hard.

He can feel it, the weight of Steve’s eyes. Turns away. Hides.

Next one’s not a slap but crushing force, his balls curiously small in Steve’s huge hand and merciless grip. It’s a slower, sweeter agony, building and building until it’s an inferno at the base of Bucky’s spine, threatening to kill him in one swift sweep.

He sobs, shuddering and twitching, and doing everything but escaping Steve’s grip. He can’t, when trying to shift away makes his grip tighten until Bucky’s terrified for the future children he’ll never have. He’s crying well and real now, a sobbing mess trembling in the palm of Steve’s hand.

Relief is slow to come when Steve lets him go, the pain of blood rushing back to his balls as excruciating as Steve’s grip, maybe more.

The fingers Steve curl around his cock rouse relief and dread, the pleasure of the touch countered by the stark memory of what happened last time. When Bucky pries his eyes open and blinks away tears to focus on Steve, he’s greeted with a lopsided smile that says Steve knows exactly what Bucky’s thinking. Blue eyes bore into his own, trapping Bucky in their depths while Steve strokes him sweet and slow. There’s something oddly absent-minded about it, like he’s just petting a dog that spent hours being sweet and quiet and _good_ for him.

Bucky makes a sound, not quite a word, and fucks up into Steve’s hand.

He whines the next moment when that touch vanishes, leaving him hard and aching and so fucking desperate.

“Not yet,” is all Steve says, reaching to the side for something. Bucky peers dazedly at the lube, the slick shine of it all over Steve’s cock. He’s kind enough to smear some on Bucky’s hole but doesn’t finger him, not even a slip of a thumb, and Bucky knows what’s coming next, his gut clenching with it.

Steve shoots him a thoughtful glance. Strands of hair have fallen to his forehead, and he’s so fucking pretty.

“Keep that up and you’ll break your wrist. Only one of your hands is metal, sweetheart.”

Bucky makes a confused noise before he registers the pain in his right hand from where the cuff has rubbed him raw. Skin hasn’t broken, yet, but won’t be long if he keeps pulling on it. He didn’t even realize he was doing it.

It must show on his face because Steve’s expression turns hot and pleased the way it does before he fucks Bucky through whatever surface he’s got him pinned to.

Sure enough, Steve grabs his legs and lifts them, setting them promptly on his shoulders. It feels like straddling a fucking mountain, and Bucky’s cock jerks, dripping shamelessly. Steve spreads his ass cheeks with one oversized hand and guides his cock into Bucky with the other. Blunt, hot pressure stays teasing for a moment and then turns punishing, all that girth forcing itself into Bucky with nothing more than some lube to ease the way.

And yeah, Steve did pour a shitton of that over his cock and smeared a decent amount on Bucky’s hole too, but it still takes all of that not to get him ripped apart. He wouldn’t – _doesn’t_ – mind bleeding for Steve, welcomes it, but this isn’t even that, just a steady, unforgiving stretch that has him heaving for breath before Steve’s even halfway in.

Steve pauses, both of his hands now on Bucky’s thighs, keeping him spread like he’ll even think of closing his legs. Can’t, anyway, with Steve settled between them like a blond and golden hulk.

A thumb rubs soothingly along Bucky’s inner thigh, making him shudder and pant and focus on the soft back-and-forth of that touch. It’s absurdly grounding and terrifying for it, and not only because he knows that when Steve gets like this, any kindness he offers is tinged in threat.

In the space between one breath and the next, Bucky’s stuffed _full_, the whole of him flaring white-hot at the brutal stretch. He’s screaming, he realizes, not one long shout but short, staccato cries which leave his throat raw and dry.

Steve waits for him to be done with a sneer at the corner of his lips and starts fucking him, not much, not even hard, just these quick dirty grinds that makes it feel like his cock is carving something inside of Bucky. Opening him up, he realizes between sobs, not just fucking blindly. Steve’s cock, prying him open instead of his fingers or mouth.

Bucky clenches, can’t help, and doesn’t make anything easier for himself. It drags a groan out of Steve, low and guttural, the sound going straight to Bucky’s dick which doesn’t fucking need the encouragement, hard and wet in spite of the pain and being forced open. Of course it is, always is, but that doesn’t stop Bucky from occasionally looking at like a traitor. He wonders, sometimes, if it’d be easier to hide the way Steve pushed his buttons if he had a cunt instead, but then he’d be dripping fucking wet and _still_ aching to be filled, and that’s not exactly subtle, is it?

A gentle slap to his face makes him start, whole body jerking. It makes Steve slip out a bit, only to push right in, grinding deep like he can meld their bodies together. Any words they could have said dies a breathless death, Bucky whining pitifully and Steve bowed over him all flushed, the hand that slapped Bucky bunched in a pillow.

Steve recovers first, the bastard.

“You with me, Barnes?” he asks, and Bucky gets distracted by his voice, the low timbre, the filthy tilt; no one else gets this, just Bucky.

The next slap is harder, might as well be a punch to his already swollen cheek.

“Yes,” he gasps, beyond complaint. “I’m with you.”

“Good boy,” Steve breathes, quiet and satisfied, and Bucky’s helpless against the wave of arousal that surges through him. It gets him tightening around Steve again, muscles gripping his cock like they want to keep it there forever. Bucky wouldn’t mind, would love to stay just like this, full of cock and dizzy with it.

“Christ.” It’s Steve, and when Bucky forces himself to focus on him, he finds him with his expression screwed up into one like pain. “Gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to do when Steve gets like this, calling him sweet things not with edged cruelty but utter sincerity. A part of him likes it, squirms and bubbles with it, but that part scares the everloving shit out of him.

He says nothing, knows it’s not the time, and it won’t matter anyway once Steve’s done with him and back to his senses. Few men mean what they say with their cock in a tight hole, Bucky should know, and he’d like his fucking brain to decide whether it wants to be relieved or disappointed by that instead of clinging to this cursed limbo, but no, fuck, _not the time_.

He thrusts his body into a sharp arch, groaning as the movement pulls at his restraints, and tries his fucking best to milk Steve as he fucks Bucky. It’s hard to focus when Steve speeds up in answer, but he keeps at it, clenching rhythmically around Steve’s cock, just to drive him crazy. Steve’s a vision when he loses control, and Bucky usually pays the price in bruises that won’t fade for days and a limp in his steps, but it’s always, _always_ worth it.

Steve makes him stop thinking, and Bucky half-loves him for it.

Sure enough, the sudden emptiness in him is the only warning he gets before Steve slams back in, almost bending Bucky in half in the process. The angle changes, Steve’s cock grazing his prostate every few thrusts, deliberate maybe, or not, Bucky doesn’t _care_, moving back into the thrusts as an exquisite mix of pleasure and pain sizzle up his spine. He can come like this, from Steve’s cock fucking him open and his fingers bruising him blue, he just needs – just a little–

“No,” Steve growls and suddenly, his hands are on Bucky’s hips, nails scraping skin harsher as he arranges him for Steve to fuck into. Angle’s different again, crueler, so deep Bucky feels like he’s choking on it, and he doesn’t know what the fuck Steve’s doing when he should know by now that Bucky will take whatever he’s given and enjoy it, will get off on it.

“Look at me,” Steve barks, and Bucky pries open the eyes he wasn’t aware of closing to meet that burning gaze. “You’re not coming until I damn well say you are. You get me, Barnes?”

Bucky gasps like a goddamn fish, beyond words.

Steve’s having none of that and pulls back until his cockhead’s at the rim, keeping Bucky open and empty.

“Steve,” he whimpers, trying unsuccessfully to get him back _inside_.

“Bucky,” Steve returns, infinitesimally softer than before but no less demanding. “Do you get me?”

Bucky slams his head back into the pillow and gets a couple of fresh bruises on his hips for his trouble. They don’t do this often; Steve’s favored brand of evil is to make Bucky come and then fuck him good and hard until he comes again, and then to fuck him some more until he’s writhing and senseless from overstimulation.

It’s still easy to give in, aching dick and desperate need aside. This is Steve, and Bucky’s so fucking used to giving himself over.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky grits out and cries out when Steve fucks back in, rough and ruthless.

He vocalizes like an alley cat for god knows how long, folded up and fucked within an inch of his life, hands held tight in cuffs that won’t give no matter how hard he yanks with his metal arm. He twists under Steve like a demon, gets no fucking mercy except a pounding that makes him see stars.

It's relief and a fucking tragedy when Steve comes, almost pulling out as he does, drenching Bucky’s hole inside and out, leaving him sopping wet. Doesn’t matter how many times it has happened, it always sends a humiliating thrill through Bucky to feel Steve dripping out of him.

He’s still rock-hard and taut with tension, neither of which is helped by Steve’s slow, roving gaze. It’s like he’s studying Bucky, the expression on his face not far from the one he wears in the field. There’s a foreboding chill to the thought of Steve reading him the way he reads a battle, cataloguing strengths and weaknesses and the best way to break him down, but it gets him hot too, cock fucking gushing, and anyway, it’s not like Bucky’s going anywhere even if he wants to.

He thrusts his hips, fucking the air with a look at Steve that’s meant to be demanding. He gets the feeling that it comes across as pathetic instead, but he doesn’t care as long as he gets to finish. He’s not desperate enough to beg now that Steve’s not in him anymore, but he’s not far either. Arousal is a low, insistent thrum in his body, leaving him incapable of lying still.

Steve just pins Bucky’s hips with one big paw and returns to watching him.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses, turning his head away in a wild, thrashing motion. “Come _on_.”

It’s not begging, technically.

“Relax,” Steve says and chuckles when Bucky goes tense all over. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

Not always a good idea, sassing Captain America. Bucky’s seen Tony get his ass kicked the last time in a sweet, friendly spar. Steve even helped him up later. Bucky gets retribution that’s far less sweet and friendly.

This time, Steve just chuckles. Maybe he thinks Bucky’s swollen face and aching cock are cruel enough, but he doesn’t think so.

“It’s not meant to be.”

Bucky can’t do anything but watch when Steve reaches over to grab the pillow Bucky’s not using. Steve’s got good pillows, thick and sturdy, better for propping up your neck while you read than for sleeping. This one slides under Bucky’s ass, Steve’s tree-trunk arms shifting Bucky’s lower half this way and that until he’s got the damn thing situated under his hips. Between that and the way his legs are still on Steve’s shoulders, he’s too fucking exposed. He’s leaking come, for fuck’s sake, and he can feel his rim twitch and shudder like it can sense Steve’s scrutiny.

Steve gives his ass a condescending pat and lowers Bucky’s legs back to the bed. They smart a little, muscles twinging unpleasantly, but Bucky’s distracted by Steve’s whole body curving over him. There’s a moment when he nonsensically thinks that Steve’s gonna lie down on him, but no, what he gets is teeth tugging on his nipples none too gently, first one and then the other. He moans, the sound startled out of him, but Steve pulls back with a smug smile and promptly yanks away the pillow Bucky’s lying on.

“Hey!”

“Better this way,” Steve tells him, tone all soothing and not soothing Bucky at all. “I like the view.”

“I don’t,” he complains, and tries not to overthink whether that gave away how vulnerable he feels like this, arms cuffed over his head and ass up and legs spread. Ridiculous that the pillow made a difference, but it does somehow. Maybe it’s psychological. Who the fuck knows. His head’s a bag of rabid cats on a good day.

“This isn’t about you, sweetheart,” Steve says, and _oh_, there it is, that sugar-sweet tone that turns Bucky’s blood to ice.

He’s distracted thoroughly when Steve bends to nuzzle his cock. He’s a sinful sight, full pink lips pressing feather-light kisses to taut, flushed skin. Bucky’s sorely neglected dick’s happy for the attention, gushing precum like it can sweettalk Steve into an orgasm if it gets wet enough. Bucky knows Steve’s secretly Captain Asshole, and his dick should too, but then again, the issue is probably that it knows it and likes it.

Bucky slams his head back into the mattress with a chuckle that’s on the edge of hysterical. He knows his control is dire when he starts anthropomorphizing his cock. He needs to _come_, but Steve’s just petting him with his lips, not–

Three fingers cram into his ass and press on his prostate, and Bucky’s mind whites out for a second.

Coherency returns to the sound of his own harsh breathing, inordinately loud in his ears, any hard-won composure vanishing with Steve’s thick fingers inside him.

“There we go,” Steve’s voice floats to him. “Sorry I was boring you before, Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t have the breath to curse him, not when Steve’s pinkie is already nudging at his hole, the slick tip rubbing the rim all sweet. Bucky’s loose and wet as fuck from Steve’s cock, and he’s taken four fingers before, that time when he thought Steve was gonna fist him, except he didn’t and Bucky limped home that night with relief and disappointment warring violently within him.

He doesn’t think he can take that again. If he’s gonna – if Steve plans to – he’s gotta commit, the fucker, and he’s Captain America, he should be used to that shit.

“Steve,” Bucky calls, and he swears he means it to sound stern, but it comes out all soft and pathetic. Needy. “Don’t tease.”

Steve takes that a bit too literally, slipping his finger into Bucky, slow but not _stopping_ till it’s all the way in, till Bucky’s gaping around four fucking fingers.

“Alright, Bucky. I won’t,” Steve says, very quiet, a threat and a promise.

He starts to move his fingers, and Bucky’s there, present in his body to the point that it’s painful, every ounce of his awareness caught and trapped in the wide stretch of his hole and the hand dead set on rearranging his insides. His cock doesn’t even flag, the damn slut, just throbs pitifully between his legs. If he could come from this, he would, but he’s always needed either a hand on his dick or something pounding him like it wants to break him, and Steve’s giving him neither, just these careful thrusts, more to open him up than anything else.

Open him up for _what_, Bucky doesn’t know, but he can guess, and that’s birthing butterflies in his gut.

He tries, just because he can, to shift away from Steve, moving his hips in an abrupt motion. Steve’s fingers drag along his walls, sparking fire, but they don’t slide out. Steve’s hand clamps down on him, pinning his hips flat to the mattress. His fingers curve inside Bucky, hooking in like they want to burrow into his flesh. Maybe that would be kinder that this endless pressure on his prostate, not enough to get him off and more than enough to keep him on the edge, drowning in sensation and never surfacing.

Bucky bites his lip to stifle a moan.

Steve doesn’t even acknowledge the half-hearted resistance. It’s infuriating, makes Bucky want to thrash around just to make him work for it, and as if sensing his thoughts, Steve spreads his fingers and fuck, he’s too full, too fucking _open_.

“D-don’t,” he stutters, panting around the word. More plea than command. He remembers last time, how he begged Steve to stop. How Steve didn’t stop.

Bucky almost loses it at the memory, convulsing around Steve’s fingers, cock twitching helplessly.

“Mixed signals here, sweetheart,” Steve tells him, laughter lightening his voice. He’s got to know what Bucky’s thinking. He’s enjoying this.

Bucky blinks, his lashes are wet, and he doesn’t know when he started crying. Steve crooks his fingers, spreads them, and Bucky’s scream is half a sob.

“Steve,” he says, can’t help it. “Steve, _Steve_.”

“I’m here,” Steve says softly, and he sounds soft and calm like he’s gonna kiss Bucky’s hurts and send him on his way, but his thumb’s pressed to Bucky’s perineum, pressing firmly to give him a burst of pleasure, then pulling back to prod at his stretched rim.

“I can’t, Steve, you know I can’t, I–” He cuts off, sobbing, and Steve presses in, in, _in_.

Bucky arches, torso a deep curve, but Steve keeps him pinned and spread, thumb edging in, and doesn’t matter how he folds his hand, how he tries to ease it in, he’s huge, his hand’s _huge_, and it’s tearing Bucky apart.

“Hush,” Steve croons sweetly, not stopping. “You can take it, Bucky, look at you, you’re so fucking open for it, so eager.”

“_No_–”

He can make this stop, just one word and he can, but–

Damn all the gods.

“Please stop,” Bucky begs, low and pathetic, because he can, because he knows, because Steve won’t stop.

Steve’s thumb pops inside, insane pressure and stinging pain. Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head, mouth open uselessly.

Steve keeps _pushing_.

There’s a high-pitched whine spiraling into a scream, cut off abruptly with a stuttered gasp. Bucky trembles, held wide open around the widest part of Steve’s fucking _fist_, and it’s moving and he’s not ready and _please, Steve, it hurts, stop_–

“Ssh,” Steve breathes, free hand petting absently along Bucky’s thigh, wrapping loosely around his cock. “Relax. It’ll be easier if you relax.”

“C-can’t,” he says brokenly. “You don’t _know_–”

“Breathe,” Steve tells him, bastard, but the part of Bucky that’s sane enough to register the world notes that he doesn’t sound so calm anymore, voice gone all guttural the way it gets when he’s worked up. “I need you to breathe, Bucky, just breathe.”

Bucky shakes his head, tugs like hell on his restrains, but he’s held in place, perfect for Steve to use.

_God_–

Mad, blinding pressure, a moment that goes on forever, and then Bucky’s sobbing in sheer relief, hole closing around Steve’s wrist. It’s still a hell of a stretch but better, lets him breathe easier, not by much, just enough.

Steve stays stock still, stroking Bucky’s flank to soothe and rolling his balls to distract, and Bucky hates how well it works, how Steve knows just how to touch him, and he loves it too, terrifyingly.

He tries to speak though he doesn’t know what to say, but all that comes out is a soft, wounded noise.

“Bucky,” Steve says, very gentle. “Look at me. Can you do that? Just look at me, sweetheart.”

Tone’s all wrong, Steve shouldn’t sound so nice, but those words burrow all the way down into Bucky’s soul, warms him right up.

He opens his eyes, looks at Steve. Rings of blue around gleaming black. Hair dark with sweat. Flushed skin, blotchy pink. So pretty. _Bucky’s_, in this moment. Won’t last, never does, his own damn fault, but. His. For now.

“Steve…”

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, smiling, eyes wide like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Looking right at Bucky. “You’re doing so good, pal.”

“Mmm.”

“You want to come?”

Bucky nods jerkily, blinks away tears that won’t stop falling. It’s weird because he’s smiling too, can feel the stretch of his lips, the ache in his cheeks, though that might just be from when Steve hit him.

Whatever calm he’s earned is gone in shriek the next moment. Steve _moves_, hand shifting inside Bucky, just a minute twitch, but he feels it all way to his fucking soul, everything shuddering the way it does before a shattering.

And he doesn’t mean to, but he tries to pull away from the touch, from the barrage of sensations, and cries out desperately when that only makes Steve’s fist tug at his rim from the inside. His hole clenches tight around Steve, keeping him locked inside even as Bucky gasps for air around the fullness.

“Easy, Bucky,” Steve says again, and it doesn’t help that under the concern, he just sounds like he wants to fuck Bucky open and leave him ruined forever. A man of multitudes, Steve Rogers.

Bucky whines at him, beyond words, but keeps his body stock still, hyperaware of how fucking open he is, right at the edge of breaking.

“I’ve got you,” Steve tells him, and it’s ridiculous how those words spear deep into Bucky, make something hidden buried go soft and loose, trusting this man’s blood-soaked hands.

Maybe it’s because they are blood-soaked and calloused with two lifetimes of violence that Bucky can do this, can let go, can trust to be taken apart and put back together as well as he can be.

So he does, goes limp in his cuffs and closes his eyes. Gives in.

The noise Steve makes is approving and appreciative, settling warmly on Bucky’s skin. A hand wraps around his cock, the pleasure of it sharp and startling after being denied so long. It throbs in Steve’s hand, hard and hurting. The first stroke is like fire, rippling through his gut and tearing a soft sound out of him.

“You with me, Bucky?”

Bucky nods. Doesn’t speak, can’t, but Steve doesn’t force him to. Just strokes him again, his hand slick with Bucky’s precum, making wet, filthy noises with each slide of his hand. It’s too much, almost, and Bucky keeps clenching around Steve’s fist, can’t help it even when it makes everything go white and sharp. It’s too full, too open, too perfect, and he wants to come but Steve’s strokes just wind him up without taking him over, too much and not enough.

He breaks at the swipe of a thumb along his slit, pressing hard enough to hurt in the way Steve knows he likes. Pleasure bursts like lightning along his cock, and he’s so fucking wet for it, but, _fuck_.

“Move,” Bucky says, or tries. It comes out a garbled moan, his throat aching a little.

“Steve,” he tries again, the name a faint plea on his lips. Steve stills, and Bucky doesn’t need to open his eyes to feel the heated weight of his eyes. “Move. Please.”

“Christ.” Steve says it so softly that Bucky’s not sure he was meant to hear, but he does, squirming inside at the unconcealed awe in his voice. “Bucky, you…”

“Please,” he begs, choking on a sob, whole body shuddering, pinned to sanity by Steve’s hand in his ass and on his cock.

Steve starts slow, gentle with Bucky now that he’s got him where he wants him. It’s a funny thought, but Bucky’s not in the mood for laughing, least of all when Steve curls his hand into a fist inside of him. Doesn’t matter how cautious he is, and he _is_, it’s still so much to take. His hand presses in on Bucky’s prostate, a constant, unrelenting pressure, as maddening as the slow, firm strokes on his cock.

Bucky’s shaking within seconds, wound tight under Steve’s hand. He fights to stay still, to not tug at his cuffs and move with Steve’s touches, because if he starts, he won’t stop until he’s thrashing in bed, begging Steve to stop, to never stop, and he can already feel the words crowding up his throat. All that escapes are plaintive mewls and broken gasps of Steve’s name, and Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. Steve talks back, but the words are formless noise in Bucky’s ears, soothing all the same because it’s _Steve_, murmuring to him so sweet, and he could be whispering filth about how he’ll leave Bucky gaping, but it still feels like comfort, something keeping him tethered while the hands jerking his cock and filling his ass drive him out of his mind.

He doesn’t feel the build up, just the release; an assault of pleasure and then an explosion. He seizes up, tightening convulsively around Steve’s hand, and whites out.

He’s aware, distantly, of Steve working him through his orgasm until pleasure turns to pain, then stopping, letting go of his cock, slipping his hand out and trying so hard to be careful. It hurts, aches something fierce. Bucky thinks he makes some noise, isn’t really sure, only that he’s so _empty_ again, hole twitching like it doesn’t know what to do without Steve filling it up.

Bucky feels boneless, fucked out and wrung dry, and _good_, like the aches and strains are far away.

He dozes, maybe.

When he comes to, the cuffs are undone and his right hand is on Steve’s lap, the sore wrist being massaged. It feels good.

It’s hard to drag his eyes up to Steve’s face, too look in those eyes, but he does. They’re so gentle, intent on Bucky’s hand. It settles something inside of Bucky, makes him want to run at the same time, and he would except that he’s sure his legs won’t hold him up, and an equally loud part of him simply doesn’t want to leave Steve’s warm comfort.

Steve looks up, worry lines at the corners of his eyes that ease a little when he finds Bucky looking at him.

“Hey,” he says softly, like talking to a spooked animal. Bucky tries to sneer, doesn’t quite make it. “You alright?”

Bucky opens his mouth to say – he’s not quite sure what, but that turns out not to matter when all that escapes his mouth is a breathless croak. Steve jumps as if electrocuted, and it’s hilarious except for how it’s not. Bucky’s grateful when he reaches over and grabs a small bottle of water. He’s not sure whether it was there before they tumbled into bed. He hopes so; he doesn’t want to think that he passed out soundly enough to miss Steve leaving and returning in addition to unshackling Bucky and, now that he’s paying attention, cleaning him up. He even covered him with a blanket, and it feels so _good_.

What they do together never ends like this, though Bucky’s not unaware that Steve wants it to.

He should leave, but–

Steve presses the bottle carefully to his lips, eyes all wide and earnest, and Bucky sips obediently, sighing happily when the cool water trickles down his swollen throat.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks once Bucky’s had his fill.

To his credit, Bucky pauses a moment to consider his answer. Physically speaking, he feels like yesterday’s coagulated shit. Everything hurts – his face, his arms, his legs, his ass, oh god, his _ass_.

He’s also sure that if he could, he’d be purring up a storm.

“Good,” he says in the end. “Really good. Tired. Could sleep a week.”

Steve says nothing but he beams, lighting up the whole damn room. It’s blinding. Bucky looks away.

He wants Steve to curl up in bed with him, hold him close with his huge arms and keep him safe. He can. He will. Bucky knows it.

He turns away, gritting his teeth when the movement makes muscles flare with pain.

“Bucky–”

“You can stop hovering,” Bucky cuts in. “I’d leave, but I don’t think I can walk. I – I can move to the couch. If you can help me along.”

“I have a guest room,” Steve says, but it’s clear that it’s an automatic reply. He sounds more bewildered than anything else. Maybe he thought Bucky would stay this time. And he is, technically, just not in the way that matters.

“Okay. Sorry.”

“Bucky, you – I can–”

“Cap,” Bucky sighs, wincing at using that name and glad he’s turned away from Steve. He finds he can’t follow that up with anything.

From behind him, there’s a loud, hurt silence.

Every time. Every fucking time, Bucky tells himself–

“Steve.” He lets himself be soft, for a moment. He can do this much. “Thank you. I – I loved what you did. Needed it. But I’d like to be alone now.”

It’s a gentler rebuff than usual. Steve deserves as much, doesn’t he? Bucky’s not kind, but he can pretend a while. No one’s being harmed.

Even in his head, it sounds like a lie.

There’s a long sigh from Steve, and Bucky aches hearing it, the pain striking deeper than all the aches and throbs in his bruised, broken down body. When hesitant fingers stroke the back of his head, letting strands of hair slip between them, Bucky doesn’t pull away.

“Good night, Bucky,” Steve whispers, soft but firm, a wealth of meaning stuffed into the handful of syllables that form Bucky’s name. It’s not strong enough to bear all that weight. Never was.

Bucky waits until the door clicks closed before he whispers, “Good night, Steve.”

He lies there a moment, head numb and not, and he thinks he won’t sleep, but he does, long and deep.

-

In the morning, he wakes to an empty apartment, with breakfast on the table and no notes.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a comment if you can!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [because he is trying to kill you (and you deserve it, you do, and you know this)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794070) by [Irrelevancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy)


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